So who won?
by moonlessmondays
Summary: Snow and Charming are tired of Robin and Regina always fighting. So, they form a brilliant plan: lock them in a closet. See what happens. Rated M because I said so.


_It's almost 2 am and this, I guess, is what happens when I'm sleep deprived and I chat with a bunch of loons called the trashgirlzband. If you haven't checked our Christmas fic yet, please do. It's called **12 days of OutlawQueen Christmas.** Enjoy this filthy piece of schmaltzy smut._

 _Rated M for a reason._

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If there is one thing that Regina Mills hates (Regina hates a lot of things, Snow White and her insipid husband being on the top of her list right at this moment), it is being confined in a small space. It isn't at all pleasant, the feeling, especially if it's as dirty and miniscule as this space—could this even be considered a space still if it's this small? And right now, that is exactly where she is at, locked inside a _fucking_ supplies closet, or whatever room this is supposed to be in such a large castle (it's basically empty and not any larger than her bathroom, nowhere even near, without anything in it), and to add insult to injury, she is locked with absolutely the last person she wants to be locked with.

"You might as well sit," _he_ tells her in that infuriating voice of his, with that equally as infuriating accent that made her knees weak and her leg tremble and her— _woah, hold your horses, Mills,_ she thinks as she bites down on her lip and curls her fingers into a fist, digging her nails to her flesh to stop herself from reaching out and grabbing him and kissing him silly.

She heard him sigh, as though exasperated, and how dare he? How dare he be exasperated when she's the one who has to spend her time with _him_ —and his forest smelling self, and his dimpled smile and his toned body that she is sure she's hiding somewhere in those stupid layers of clothing that she wants to rip—and no, really, she needs to stop.

Damn it.

"Come on, _Your Majesty_ ," he says, stressing out on the title he mockingly calls her, what a bastard, as he rolls his eyes knowing she can still see him through her peripherals. "I know it's not as soft as your cushioned thrones but it _is_ better than standing there by the door forever."

Regina huffs. Everything seems infinitely better than being here at all. She ignores him—easy, she does it all the time—and she tries once more to open the damned door. She has tried everything for the past hour, conjured a fireball and threw it at the door and that had not resulted to anything, not even a goddamn fucking scorch mark on that stupid fucking plane of a door. She'd tried blasting the door to kingdom come as well, but was met with no pleasing results.

God damn it.

Regina mutters under her breath, curses the Charmings up a storm, knowing without being told or seeing it that it had been them who had thought of this stupid, stupid idea. Of course they had been the ones to lock her with that _thief_. Snow had complained to her many a time about her treatment of the thief, had begged multiple times to try and be civil to him and his band of living, breathing mischief.

And now, because she's ignored Snow and her honestly, annoying comments about how she ought to or ought not to treat the thief, she and her husband have locked Regina with the very same man inside a fucking closet. And sealed it in with magic she can't work out of—blood magic probably, from the fairies.

Oh how fucking wonderful.

"Come on Regina, just unrecoil from your tight spring, I'm not going to bite," she hears him say, and by god, did he really have to? She has almost forgotten he is even here (of course not, she can't—not when her nerves are tingling and her knees are almost shaking at the distance or the lack thereof, between them).

She scoffs before turning to him, and stalking over to where he is, taking a seat as far away as she possibly can from him.

He sighs once more. "I don't have a disease, Regina," he tells her, and she's tempted to snap at him that she's not Regina to him, not yet, and not ever. "My thievery, as you put it, is not contagious."

She rolls her eyes and bites her cheek to make a retort. It isn't worth arguing once more, to be honest. She's tired and wants to sleep, wants to curl into a ball in his arms—ugh, God, what is even happening to her.

She cannot do this, cannot fall for him or have any kinds of thoughts about him. He's off limits, not good for her no, no, because it's just too good to be true that the man she's fled from all those decades ago, her soul mate because pixie dust doesn't lie, is the very same man she is locked in this room with. It cannot be. It just cannot be. No matter how much she also wants to fuck the living daylights out of this man.

"Lighten up milady," he teases as he lolls his head to the side (he's been seating on the floor since an hour ago, having given up trying to pick the lock as well, back against the wall, head resting against the surface languidly). "We might be here for a few more hours."

 **…**

"So you're telling me that you know Princess Snow and Prince David were the ones to lock us up in here?" the thief, _Robin,_ asks her as looks at her with an increasingly mischievous smile. "They should get a payback when we get out of here."

She snorts and shakes her head. "Trust me, I'm already planning it," she tells him. She lifts her hand and conjures a fireball. "I've already thought of how many fireballs I'm going to throw on their faces."

He chuckles, reaching for the bottle of whisky in her hand and taking a swig. "Well, well let's not be hasty, milady," he says with a laugh.

She doesn't know how it came from her being so annoyed at him to them sitting on the floor and facing each other while passing the bottle of whisky she's conjured back and forth. It's probably somewhere in the middle of discussing Roland and the winged freaks and their attacks on the castle.

She really needs to destroy that green bitch. The stupid flying monkeys are too ugly to let live for so long.

"Maybe we should prank them," Robin suggests with a devilish glint in his eyes.

She laughs and nods excitedly. "Right," she agrees. "It should be something big, something great."

 **…**

Now, this, she doesn't really have an inkling how it happened. One moment she is telling him about Henry, about her son so far away from her now, lets him see a part of the woman she used to be in the Land Without Magic—the mother, and the next, she's being pulled into his arms, lifted and placed down on his lap, and kissed senseless. She remembers something about him touching her hand and then cupping her face, tucking the loose hair that's fallen from her half bun. And then his lips are pressing against hers, tongue sliding in without hesitancy, and she grants him the permission he's been given so willingly, moaning eagerly and slipping her hands underneath that white shirt of his and finally, mercifully feeling the hard planes of his rock hard abs—and god, how she wants to run her tongue over it.

She shifts in his lap and rocks against him, feeling him taut and hard underneath her, and god why has she worn stupid leather pants today?

"Regina," he breathes as he pulls away his hands uncurling from her hips where he'd been gripping her. He shifts a bit moves just a tiny bit, but it is enough to make her feel the loss of contact with him vastly.

Is it her or did it just get colder?

"Regina we need to stop," he tells her, sucking in a deep breath, and subtly trying to push her off of his lap.

"Do you want to?" she asks enticingly, lips hovering over the column of his neck before pressing down and sucking his supple flesh, biting and then soothing it with her tongue. Oh god knows she doesn't want to.

"I don't," he answers truthfully as his head falls back and his eyes fall shut. It gives her more space to suck and lick and bite at his delectable throat. Oh and thank god for that. "But we have to."

She groans. No, not thanking god for that one, though.

"Why?" she asks, shifting once more and grinding down on him, hips rotating against his throbbing cock. God it's big and glorious, and it needs to be inside her, right about now.

She feels the heat pooling low in her belly, her core throbbing and she can't clearly remember how many vivid dreams she's had of sitting on his lap and taking that hard cock inside her, taking him in, in and out until they both come.

How wrong is that?

Not too wrong, she hopes.

When Robin does nothing, she sighs and lefts his head, saying, "Look, I want to do this so don't feel like you're about to take something not given to you. You're a thief, but even you cannot steal _that_." She gives him a smile, the first she might have given to him that is not laced with anything—no venom or irony, just a simple, genuine smile. She shrugs. "It doesn't have to get out of the four walls of this stupid closet." She crinkles her nose in disgust. "Actually, I'd prefer if it didn't."

He looks doubtful for one moment, before his eyes turn wide when she magics her clothes away and she's left in nothing, not even her underwear, and she magics his, too, making it disappear with a wave of her hand. His eyes remain fixated to her chest and she almost smirks.

"There," she tells him with a proud grin. "Let's get it on, shall we?"

He looks down at his now bare body, and she does the same, licking her lips and wishing she was licking him instead. God, even if she regrets this when she's more sober and less lust-intoxicated, at least she could look back and say that she's been fucked by an Adonis.

That's almost makes it worth it.

If she becomes bold and audacious, she might just make him believe that she's not trembling and nervous. Then she stops, bites her lip and wonders. God, what if _he_ doesn't want this?

"Do _you_ want to do this, Robin?" she asks, lowering her voice to a dulcet tone that she knows men cannot resist, it's worked before, and she can see it working now as Robin's eyes drop to her bare breasts once more. He licks his lips.

"Of course I do," he growls before pulling her closer once more, and without a word his mouth latches on her nipple, his tongue rolling against the taut buds, his hand coming up to roll the other between his thumb and index finger.

She could feel the excitement thrumming in her veins. If this is only one night of passion that she's bound to spend with this man, then by god she is going to take it.

She moves to spread her legs and wrap it around his waist before she threads her fingers through his hair. She arches her back when he sucks particularly hard—hard enough to derive maximum pleasure but not hard enough to cause her any pain. She lets him play for a while, lets him treat her other breast in the same manner before she is pushing against his head, attempting to dislodge his mouth from her breasts.

He looks confused for a moment, but realization dawns on him when she slides from his lap and levels her face with his erect member. Without preamble, she pulls him into her mouth and sucks him hard, hard enough to have him groaning and moaning, fingers tangling against her hair, undoing her intricate half updo. She sucks him deep in her throat, her hands laying flat on his legs. He feels good, she thinks, feels so good in her mouth, his thickness making sure she'd have a sore jaw in the morning, but he tastes just as good that she doesn't even care anymore.

She feels his fingers skipping through her skin, trailing down her back, to her ass, then to her center where he flicks against her clit, once twice, pinching lightly that it has her moaning around his cock. He runs a finger up and down her slit, testing her wetness and finding her wet enough (and lord god, she _is_ wet, so fucking wet and slippery). She is throbbing, feels her core so aroused that it is dilating, in need of something inside it, needing to cum.

She gasps in surprise when he plunges in two fingers inside her, and without any warning starts just plunging in and out, in and out, adding a third finger making her full. Oh but it is not enough, she needs more, she needs this stiff hardness she is sucking in her mouth to fill her up where she too is throbbing, hot and wet.

God she needs him.

"Robin," she moans around his hard girth, but he only growls in response, picking up his pace and fucking her with his nimble fingers—oh and thank god for those bow and arrows. His other hand reaches down to knead her breast and she, never to be one up, continues to suck him vigorously, harder, faster, deeper into her hot mouth.

He's flicking his thumb against her clit, while three of his fingers are thrusting in and out of her, in and out, and then curls just at the right way that it hits _that_ spot that makes her mewl like a kitten, makes her thrust against his hand.

It doesn't take long, doesn't take much, god just the sight of him arouses her to no end, and it's a well timed thrust, a well placed pinch on her clit and twist of her nipples and she's coming, coming part with just his hands, his cock falling away from her mouth as her forehead falls to thigh.

She lifts her head after a few breaths and looks up at him, sees his grinning face and it annoys her, challenges her—and oh, boy, is she ready to accept. She takes him in her mouth again, sucks and licks and nips up and down his length, and it's not a moment later when she feels him shift and lift her hips, making her face aligned with his sex, and his mouth aligned with hers.

There isn't even a beat that passes by before his hot mouth is on to her, sucking, licking, nipping, biting, twirling, lapping, everything—he does everything right with that sharp tongue of his, and when he slips his middle finger into her once more, she's goner, crying around his length as she comes again.

He lets her rest for a while, but doesn't stop teasing her, his hands lazily cupping her sex, thumbs grazing the soft skin on her hipbone as she pants and pants. When she shifts to accommodate him between her legs, he smiles, lifting his eyebrows.

"Are you ready?" he asks, hands reaching up to cup her cheek. She nods, feeling a myriad of emotions explode in her chest, before he leans in and kisses her, stealing her breath away and then he moves to her entry and slides in, his length fully sheathed inside her welcoming heat.

They fit together. They fit together very well. And for a scary, flitting second she thinks of how right this is. But she wards off the thought, in case she actually gets overcome by fear and runs once more.

He moves inside her, moves slow, then fast, alternating his speed and depth, before going hard and fast and deep as per request, and he is gripping her hips in a way that will surely bruise later but she doesn't care, couldn't find it in herself to care as she feels that tightening low in her abdomen, and he's telling her that he's close, so close, and god, so is she, so deliciously just at the breadth of being sent to precipice, and _oh, mmhmm, yes, God, that's it, Robin, more_ , and he's giving it to her more, more, until she sees the stars explode behind her eyelids and she's coming, his name on her lips, with him following, her name leaving his in a growl.

She thinks she's never had it this good before.

"I bet I can make you cum more than you could do me," she teases him, and he laughs, pulling her close and growling a _challenge accepted, milady,_ against her neck.

 **…**

It is later, much later—many orgasms and it's dark outside already kind of later—that she magics them back into their clothes, presses one last kiss to his lips, which quickly turns heated when he pulls her closer into that certain part of his anatomy that's growing and growing again, that the locks clicks and the door opens, that stupid protection spell falling away.

They spring apart so quickly like recoiling spring, going a whole meter apart. Snow and Charming eye them suspiciously and Regina tries to adapt a scornful look, trying to look baleful and not like a woman well seen to, a woman well-seen to, a woman who just had multiple orgasms in various ways—which she is.

Snow looks at her and then to Robin then back at her. "So, who won?" Snow asks, the innocence of her question getting lost as Regina tries hard to bite down on her lip to keep from laughing, because, god, how ironic?

Regina shrugs. "We called it a tie," she almost snorts, and then strolls away as regally as she can, while she hears, more than sees, Robin trying hard not to snicker.

 **Fin (12/15/15)**

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A/N: Not quite a contribution for the smutweek, but smut still, yeah? Let me know what you think, I'll read them as I hide myself under a rock forever out of shame. Thanks!


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